


The Best Sweeteners

by Stratisphyre



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, Excessive whiskey consumption, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Natural causes</i>,” Jack repeated from behind his desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Sweeteners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twistedchick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/gifts).



> For Yuletide 2014, twistedchick suggested "a little murder, a spot of tea and bit of light flirting" featuring Phryne, Jack, Dot and Bert. And, well, I loved it and ran with it.
> 
> Huge thanks to all the admins and mods who work so tirelessly to make Yuletide the success it is every year. And, of course, hats off to my generous beta reader JP.
> 
> Title is from the quote by Henry Fielding, "Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea."

“ _Natural causes_ ,” Jack repeated from behind his desk.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Phryne said with a wave of her hand. 

As Phryne understood it, the first two bodies had been found within a month of each other, each passed away from what appeared to be natural causes—though the fact both had died in the same room of the same house in employ of the same man really should have been the first hint that something was amiss.

“Both times Kublai Khan tried to invade Japan—seven years apart in execution—he was turned back by freakish typhoons that apparently came out of nowhere.” Phryne blinked and Jack shrugged. “Coincidence.”

“Jack, you are a font of interesting information today,” Phryne told him. “Now tell me about this murder.”

The victim, as it happened, was the fourth in a string of maids recently hired by Mr. Weekes, a British expat who’d lived relatively peacefully excepting his inability to keep his housemaids alive. 

“Perhaps he should post a warning next time he puts out a call for domestic assistance,” Phryne said.

“May I finish?” Jack asked.

“By all means.”

The first two bodies—now victims—were found in thoughtful repose in their beds and families had been notified and properly consoled. The third, however, was discovered with a knife in her chest in the alley behind Mr. Weekes’ home. 

“I wasn’t aware that it was such a dangerous profession,” Phryne muttered. 

“Once we discovered her body, we disinterred the first two. The first was too far decomposed to provide much in the way of evidence, but we did discover a small pinprick in the inside elbow of the second. Upon further consideration, the coroner determined that cause of death was an embolism caused by a pocket of air being injected into her veins.”

“How awful. Has the household been questioned?”

Jack’s brow twitched. “You know, Miss Fisher, we do occasionally manage to perform our duties without your involvement.”

“Still, you have to admit I bring a certain sense of style to the proceedings.” Phryne smiled. “I believe Mr. Weekes is a friend of Aunt Prudence. Why don’t I see if I can’t swindle myself an invitation to tea and see if there aren’t any interesting tidbits I might shake loose.” She smiled. “No one takes tea as seriously as the British.” She paused. “Except, perhaps, Aunt Prudence.”

“By all means, let me know how it goes,” Jack replied. 

It went as such: she arrived to tea with Aunt Prudence and Dot, Mr. Weekes complained of the subpar quality of the tea served up by his new maid, a number of cucumber sandwiches were consumed with obligatory smiles, they politely ignored Lambingtons dry enough to cure fish, a lamentable cake was cut into four pieces, and Mr. Weekes suddenly and inexplicably dropped to the floor, stone dead.

Phryne promptly determined that Jack would never let her hear the end of this.

Once Aunt Prudence’s hysterics were resolved—though Phryne was privately of the opinion that they were mostly for show, as it wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen her fair share of dead bodies in the past few years—Phryne took a moment to examine the body while the maid helpfully called Jack. 

“Dot, why don’t you take a quick look about before Detective Robinson arrives?” Phryne suggested. Dot headed out the door opposite the maid. Phryne considered the corpse; it had been a quick death… no signs of fitting, no foaming of the mouth, no gasping dramatically for a few last breaths. Just a quick shuffle off the mortal coil. 

“So it must have been poison,” Phryne murmured.

“Poison?” Aunt Prudence repeated, her voice an octave short of a shriek. “Are we in danger Phryne?!”

“I don’t know. Do you feel as though you’ve been poisoned, Aunt Prudence?” Phryne asked.

That, at least, gave Aunt Prudence something to stew over while Phryne considered the corpse and what she knew about Mr. Harold Weekes, a mishmash of information hastily cobbled together and offered up by Aunt Prudence on the drive over. Most of his past in Britain was a mystery—his powers of redirection and distraction were apparently unequaled; he’d moved to Melbourne after the War and immediately ingratiated himself with Aunt Prudence’s set. 

“I always fancied him a spy,” Aunt Prudence said, once she had settled her nerves with a good deal of deep breaths and a small sip from the flash Phryne had taken to carrying in her handbag. “One who was looking to live a peaceful life, now the War was over. He was such a charming gentleman.”

“Aunt Prudence, should I be concerned for your virtue?”

Aunt Prudence immediately scowled. “Don’t be vulgar, Phryne.”

Phryne concealed a smile with a turn of her head, one that faded when she once more caught glimpse of the body. Three maids murdered, now followed by their employer. There was a possibility that the execution of the first two murders were the same, though impossible to tell, but then to be proceeded by a stabbing and poison? Surely there was something more than the house itself to connect the murders.

Jack arrived amidst her careful contemplations. 

“Poisoned tea,” Phryne said. “Brings to mind our first meeting, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed. Let’s hope it doesn’t end with me finding you in a Turkish bathhouse with a naked Russian ballerino.”

“Jack, please. I try not to make a habit of repeating myself. I shouldn’t like to become dull.”

“I think there’s very little chance of that.”

Phryne crossed the room to peer into the dregs at the bottom of the teapot. She’d been exposed to the side effects of a number of poisons throughout the years, and unless she was to be taken with a most unexpected demise, she felt they were safe. “The tea itself wasn’t the culprit, I don’t think. Otherwise Aunt Prudence and myself would surely be joining Mr. Weekes’ in his latest journey.”

Aunt Prudence let out an appropriately dramatic wail and Jack returned his attention to the tea set. 

“That would leave his own cup,” Phryne continued.

“Or the scones. I certainly didn’t have one. The jam looked dreadful.”

“Yes. Thank you, Aunt Prudence.” Phryne cast her gaze at the small pot of jam sitting on the table. “Are you going to arrest the poor maid this time?” 

“It was perfectly reasonable to consider Miss Williams a suspect,” Jack muttered.

“Oh. Yes. Dot seems the type. You can tell just by talking to her.”

Jack glowered, though it was fortunately one of gracious defeat instead of increased annoyance. “As it is, we will have to question all of the staff. Unless you feel your Aunt Prudence is in some way culpable.” His eyebrow cocked. “Or you wish to admit to the murder yourself.”

“Jack. If I were to commit murder, I promise that I wouldn’t waste your time with the investigation. My tracks would be completely covered.”

“I do find it interesting how many people of your acquaintance seem to come to a bad end.”

“If every gentleman of my particular acquaintance ended up dead, we’d run out of room at the morgue.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, a queer little line appearing between his brows. Phryne smirked. “I believe there’s only the manservant besides the maid. We didn’t meet him.”

“I’ll have Collins seek him out.” Jack peered around Phryne towards the room’s exit into the kitchen. “The maid is…”

“I only caught the name Lucy. Unfortunately, Mr. Weekes didn’t seem the type to be on warm terms with his staff. Disingenuous, all things considered. His house did offer the most treacherous employment in Melbourne, after all.” 

The door opened and Dot returned. “You’d better come and take a look, Miss.” She nodded politely to Jack, and led them through to Mr. Weekes’ personal study. Phryne had rather hoped that Dot would’ve searched his bedroom as well, but small steps. Dot wasn’t the type to want to search anyone’s bedroom, particularly a handsome—albeit deceased—gentleman’s.

“The maid has been slubbering,” Dot said. “Downright lackadaisical, if you ask me.”

“Harsh condemnation, Dot,” Phryne said.

“All the same, Miss,” Dot replied. “Unless she was on orders not to come in here, she’s let things get almost derelict.” She straightened. “And even if that was the case, the rest of the house needs more than a quick once-over with a duster.”

“Did you find anything besides particularly offensive housekeeping?” Jack asked.

“This.” Dot poked at a stack of papers and shifted them over just a touch, enough to show the front of a set of identification papers. Ones that had Mr. Weekes’ face, but—

“Harold Cotswald,” Phryne read over Jack’s shoulder. “Cotswald,” she repeated at a whisper, “Why is that name so familiar?” She tried to nudge Jack out of the way, and received a sharp look in return. “Perhaps there’s some truth in Aunt Prudence’s spy theory.”

“Spies don’t typically keep a second set of identification papers out in the open,” Jack said.

“Have you known many?” Phryne asked.

Jack blinked. “I’ll have Collins see what he can dig up on Harold Cotswald,” he said. “In the meantime, I will have to bring the maid and the butler in for questioning, regardless as to whether it meets with your approval.”

“By all means. Though if Mr. Weekes—or Cotswald, as it were—was a spy, I’ll wager we’ll have our work cut out for us.”

Collins helpfully arranged for the maid—Lucy—and the butler to be interviewed in the kitchen. Jack cut a glare Phryne’s way when she initially tried to jump in—though, really, they were both interested in the answers to the most pressing of her questions—and took a seat opposite Lucy, to start.

“You came into the employ of the household less than a week ago, isn’t that correct?” Jack began.

“No one else wanted the position,” Lucy replied. “Said it was cursed. What, with the last three maids dying, and all.”

“So what made you decide to take it?”

“Life’s been rough since the War,” Lucy replied. “My brother died in an ambulance in France, and my mother’s had a hard time making ends meets.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t too keen on dying myself, but there weren’t many other positions available.”

“Do you have a history of employment in housekeeping?” Phryne asked.

“No. This is the first time,” she admitted. She shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose it shows?”

“Only to a trained professional,” Phryne assured her.

Lucy sniffed, but deigned not honour the sentiments with reply. 

“Were you aware your employer used to go by another name?” Jack asked.

“Mr. Weekes wasn’t a very open man,” Lucy replied. “He barely spoke to me beyond scolding me for not making tea properly.”

Beyond Dot’s desire for them to take her to task for shoddy housekeeping, there wasn’t much more to be said. Even less from the butler. They left empty-handed, save for the addition of another body for the morgue.

“Three maids and their employer,” Phryne murmured to Jack that evening, seated across from him on the settee, holding a mostly-empty glass of scotch. “Poison, obviously, at least for him.” 

“The coroner is waiting on results,” Jack agreed. 

“But why the maids? And then Weekes—pardon me, Cotswald. But not Lucy or the butler.”

“Miss Albright—Lucy—was only employed for a short time.”

“Mmm, but so was the maid before her.” Phryne tapped her chin with her forefinger. “There’s something. Something we’ve not quite cottoned onto yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll stumble upon it,” Jack replied, finishing his scotch with a single swallow. “You always do. Goodnight, Miss Fisher.”

“Good evening, Jack.”

The next morning, Phryne slept in on principle—she always did, when there was a puzzle she couldn’t immediately solve; she often found that lying abed gave one a certain perspective—and only managed to drag herself downstairs before ‘morning’ became ‘afternoon’ and made her out to be quite slothful indeed.

“Good morning, Miss,” Dottie said, coming in with a tray laden down with toast and tea and, if Phryne wasn’t mistaken, properly made scones and jam. Dot never could settle for substandard work for long before her natural perfectionism strove to correct it. “Any thoughts on the murder?”

“None,” Phryne admitted with pursed lips. “Though I will admit I dreamt quite vividly about spies and saboteurs raging across the Rhineland.” She sighed and took a scone, liberally slathering it with cream and jam. “If we only knew something about Cotswald’s past.”

From the kitchen, the sound of someone violently expectorating was followed closely by Mr. Butler’s surprisingly shout, “ _Albert Johnson, did you just spit on my floor?!_ ”

Phryne’s eyebrows shot up at the same time as Dot shot out of the room, and she followed at a slightly more sedate pace, not out of desire to see Bert raked over the coals by Mr. Butler, but more to ensure that the newly-waxed floor wasn’t further polluted by a certain gentleman’s blood.

“Sorry,” Bert said as they crowded into the kitchen, sounding anything but. “Habit.”

“Would you care to explain how it has become your habit to unexpectedly spit on the kitchen floor?” Mr. Butler demanded.

“’S just Miss Fisher said the name Cotswald and I—” Bert paused. “A lot of my mates died on account of a bloke named Cotswald. Them that was stationed in France. Died in the ambo on the way to the butcher.”

“And Cotswald just happened to be aboard?” Phryne asked.

“Nah. Cotswald made medicine. Good medicine, they said, ‘cept it never came to us.” Bert’s face twisted up in angry lines and hard memories. “The ambos, they got us back and forth between the lines and the butchers. There were a lot of wounded. Men I served with. Men I knew. Men Cec knew.” Cec remained quiet in the corner, staring at Bert as though the story was a revelation. “A lot of them were ‘sposed to be triaged. Given something to stop their hurts, or make stitching them up easier. What Cotswald sent us was all water. Salt water. Didn’t do nothing ‘cept send me mates to their graves faster than the belly aches given them by the bullets speeding our way.

“He sold the real stuff to those what could pay, and me mates died in pain because there weren’t nothing left,” Bert’s mouth twisted up. “They said they’d look into it. Bring us justice. But it never came to anything. When the fighting was over and we came home to the families of the men that died, the only justice they got was hearing stories from us who fought with ‘em.”

“Do you remember Cotswald’s first name?” Phryne asked.

Bert looked as though he wanted to spit again. “Hard to forget.” 

“Harold Cotswald,” Phryne declared a scant hour later, half-seated on Jack’s desk. “Was a war profiteer. He manufactured medical supplies and then sold them to the highest bidder, instead of sending them to the front lines.”

Jack’s eyes took on the same, shaded look that Phryne had always associated with ghosts and former soldiers. “Did he, now?”

“I imagine if we happen upon his name, we’ll discover that he spent most of the war sending placebos to the Western Front and letting our men die while he rolled in the money rich men were willing to pay him.” 

“I think I almost preferred the spy theory,” Jack murmured. He glanced past Phryne to the door, checking for any accidental eavesdroppers. “Murdering war profiteers barely constitutes a crime, as far as I’m concerned.” She’d rarely heard Jacks’s voice that hard. 

“As tempting as it is to let it lie, we also have three dead women to account for,” Phryne responded. Her brow drew in thought. “Bert was stationed in France.” Jack waited silently for the loose thread of thought to coalesce into something more substantial. “Didn’t Lucy say something about her brother dying in an ambulance?”

Lucy, as it happened, was still available for questioning, though they had to stop her from boarding a train to Sydney in order to talk to her. 

She saw them seconds before Phryne picked her out of the crowd, and her bag hit the ground as she took off running. Phryne and Jack seamlessly separated—he headed after their escapee as Phryne shot down the nearby stairs, off the platform and towards a handy back exit she’d discovered once upon a time before she acquired the Hispano-Suiza. Good thing, too. She made it seconds before Lucy managed to heave herself over the locked gate and dropped down to the ground at Phryne’s feet.

“Leaving so soon?” Phryne asked.

Lucy glared at Phryne’s feet, but didn’t answer even when Jack hopped up over the gate in pursuit.

Evidently, she knew what was coming. The ride back to the station was silent and drawn, but when they finally moved her into one of the station’s interrogation rooms, her otherwise calm façade began to crumble. 

At length, she finally parroted, “Times are hard.”

“Hard enough to kill for a chance at working in a gentleman’s household?” Jack questioned.

“Cotswald wasn’t a gentleman,” Lucy snapped, a measure of fire breaking through. “He murdered my brother and who knows how many others. He’s a liar and a thief and a war profiteer.”

Phryne glanced Jack’s way, though she tried to be subtle about it. It appeared as though Bert wasn’t the only one who’d been effected by Cotswald’s schemes. 

“How did you come by this information?” Jack asked.

“Everyone knew,” Lucy all but spat. “And nothing was done about it. Our boys died when they should’ve lived and he got to retire to a cushy life with a new name. My mother works at the Windsor. I went one day to meet her there, and I saw him going in for tea. I knew him. I saw his picture, once, in the paper. About how he’d provided medicine to the front but that it was all rubbish. I know it’s why Frankie died. When I saw him, I knew suddenly what I had to do. If no one else was going to.”

“And the other maids?” Phryne asked quietly.

“I needed to get in,” Lucy said. “And eventually no one else wanted to apply for it. I feel bad about them, but not nearly as good as I did when I saw him hit the floor. Do you know,” her hands tightened into fists, “what he said to me the first day I went to work for him? He said, ‘I like my tea hot, and serving it that way’s the least you can do for a war hero.’ A war hero. My brother was a war hero.” She looked as though she might hit the table, but stopped herself at the last moment. 

Jack stood, and Phryne followed after a last look Lucy’s way. He retreated to his office and, without comment, poured them both a generous toothful of whiskey. Phryne closed the door behind them seconds before he downed his. It disappeared too quickly and eyed hers with interest for a moment until she gamely handed it over.

“There are cases, Miss Fisher, that I wish could remain unsolved.”

“I know the feeling. If she’d just killed Cotswald, we might consider giving her a medal instead of sending her to the gallows.” Phryne leaned across his desk to pour them both another couple of fingers, but barely managed to get a tot in his glass before he was throwing it back. “Jack?”

“I had friends die en route to the doctors,” Jack finally said. “Who knows if some of them didn’t get Cotswald’s water instead of real medicine.”

Phryne leaned a touch further and took his hand. His fingers felt rough and calloused when she squeezed them, but at least Jack allowed the small intimacy.

“It took something from all of us,” Phryne whispered. “Some more than others.” She could still hear the calls for a nurse, the distant wailing of an ambulance. She had always been on the side that received the soldiers who still had a fighting chance, instead of that which saw them bundled up and prepared for rites. She’d never heard of Cotswald and she was almost thankful for it. If, for one moment, she thought she might’ve been complicit in providing drugs that killed some of their boys…

“More?” Jack offered, tipping the bottle her way.

“Jack, I’m not sure there’s enough to be bought in the country,” Phryne said, even as she accepted another glass.

Door closed, they sat in silence, trading the bottle back and forth until the last drops were gone and the memories hanging in the air faded into the warm fuzz that followed.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide twistedchick!
> 
> All comments and kudos are happily and gratefully accepted.


End file.
